Breath of Bones, page 6
“This is true.” Nikolai leaned forward as if telling a secret. “A man came in last night. One who had escaped the walls of Terezín itself. He helped the Germans at the ovens—yes, ovens. This man says they are building camps designed to kill. Not one or even a dozen. Camps to hold thousands of us. Extinguish thousands more.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” A side door opened, and a man stepped into the room. The man was tall and thin. Josef believed him to be a stranger until he met the man’s eyes. He sucked in a breath. Petr? Petr had been a neighbor, a friend. Now he appeared as a ghost—a frail representation of who he’d been before. Clothes draped his body like rags. With his chiseled cheeks and chin, Petr resembled a talking skull.
“Every word is true,” Petr stated simply. “I got away. I offered to transport the dead.” Petr’s Adam’s apple rose and fell with silent sobs. “I survived by lying among them, in the piles.” He closed his eyes, and his body trembled. “They didn’t think to search for me there. And finally, I rose and escaped under the cover of night.”
Josef turned to his grandfather as if still not comprehending what was being said. Piles of bodies? And camps that could hold thousands. Tears rimmed Grandfather’s eyes. It is true.
“Thousands?” Josef repeated the word before he had time to think. “If this is true, then they are from hell itself. We can’t let them do this!”
Horror and bile rose within his throat, though only the latter could be swallowed down. What had the Jews, God’s chosen people, ever done to Germany to extract such hate?
“We won’t let them get away with this, my son,” Grandfather assured him. “This is why I have gathered everyone. We have tried to survive, but it will not be possible within this city for much longer. It’s time for all of you to leave Prague. Leave and hide.” He gestured widely before them as if presenting a banquet.
Josef’s heart clenched. Loews do not run. They fight.
“We must move fast. We must think of leaving in days, not weeks,” he continued.
The words pierced Josef like an arrow to the chest. A tight pressure pinched his knees. He glanced down to see that his whitening grip caused it. Though he fought them, words built up behind gritted teeth. Words he had before been able to tame.
“You want to run, Grandfather? Run and hope that most of us are not caught?” Josef all but spat the words. It was like Grandfather to do this. He didn’t have a drop of fight in his veins. He had the following of the people but never once forged a weapon for them. Even worse, he constantly told Josef not to.
“We have to do something. We have to fight. We need to fight.” Josef jumped to his feet. “Surely there are those who believe the same as me.”
No one moved.
“I do not believe what I am hearing, Samuel.” Hugo jutted out his chin toward Grandfather. “You are a Loew. There has to be a way. You need to have an answer.”
Grandfather stood, too. Not quite as tall as Josef, but far more imposing. “Do you think I’m God?” He moved to the window and peered at it as if he could see through the black curtain to the synagogue across the street.
The synagogue where a Loew laid down his life for his people.
“I understand how some have had to leave, but this is our home, Grandfather.” Josef’s voice trembled. “That is our synagogue. Should we leave it all behind? These streets connect a community. The walls remember our laughter and our songs. And it’s from this we must escape?”
“Escape, yes, and survive.” Grandfather spoke calmly, though Josef could feel the anger hidden within. “Raising arms and ambushing the Germans will only hasten their plans. Instead of camps, they will send us bombs and bullets. Any allies we have will reject us, and our blood will fill the streets. For what? A house? A shop? People are important, not buildings.”
Josef stared at his grandfather’s back for a long moment. None of the other men showed readiness to fight for their home. Why? It was the best way to deal with this threat. The only way.
His knees softened, and he sank onto his chair once more. He’d stop his words for now, but he would not stop his work. He found solace in the weapons he had made. His flaming hammer, though that was still in progress, and a throwable device even more effective than a soldier’s grenade, though since he had made it with Grandfather, it was not as destructive as he would have liked.
The meeting continued, but their words buzzed in Josef’s ears. The community elders talked about smuggling people to other countries and finding families to hide them. They spoke of getting more messages out to the neutral countries in hopes of spurring their action against Germany. Despite not liking any of these ideas, Josef kept his mouth closed.
Eventually, he stood and moved to the door. Listening to this was useless—especially when he had work to do. After peeking outside to ensure no patrols, he stepped into the cool evening air.
A strong arm gripped his shoulder as he crossed the threshold. He turned, expecting to see his grandfather, but instead, it was Nikolai.
Leaning close, Nikolai whispered in Josef’s ear, “You are not the only one who wants to fight. Samuel is a good man, but we need action.”
The urgency in Nikolai’s voice sent Josef’s heart racing. Before he could reply, Nikolai steered him into a shadowed alcove, distant from prying ears. “Come by my courtyard at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll see what unity and resistance can achieve.”
In the dim light, Josef leaned in and focused on the man’s dark gaze. “Are you sure, Nikolai? The risks are . . .”
Nikolai’s eyes, intense and unwavering, met Josef’s. “The price of silence is too steep. We must act before we’re forever silenced.”
Thoughts swirled in Josef’s mind, memories flooding back. His grandfather’s lap, the warm embrace, the tales of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel—the Maharal of Prague. The stories weren’t just of wisdom and leadership. They were tales of a golem, a protector born of clay. For young Josef, these stories weren’t mere bedtime tales. They were a legacy, a bridge to a time when his people stood defiant.
But innocence is fleeting. A memory of older boys laughing at the “childish tales” stung even now. The golem? A mere fable. And with that revelation, a sliver of Josef’s trust in the world had chipped away.
Now, facing Nikolai, doubt battled determination within him. How could his grandfather, a descendant of the revered Rabbi Judah Loew, stand by while their people suffered? Josef might be ill-equipped, but he’d worked on a plan to protect Hermina and her children. He may not possess the wisdom to craft a protector from dust like the legends of old, but he would not remain passive. Unlike the legends, he was taking action, however small.
Nikolai’s grip tightened on Josef’s shoulder. “It’s not about matching the deeds of legends, Josef. It’s about writing our own.”
Torn between the legends of his youth and the realities before him, Josef nodded. “Tomorrow, at six,” he whispered, steeling himself for the dawn of a new chapter—one he would take part in writing.
Kateřina had settled in her father’s home office five hours ago to prepare for her interview with Reinhard Heydrich. Then, there was a knock at the door. A uniformed officer had presented her with a personal invitation from Sturmbannführer Langer, inviting her to the concert that Heydrich himself would attend. Yes, she would go, she’d told them. What better way to prepare for her interview than to see the Obergruppenführer in his element with his guard down? More than that, she’d gain the trust of Sturmbannführer Langer. Prove to Hilbert that she could be a valuable asset to his cause. His pride wouldn’t allow him to think of her as anything else.
A car had arrived and picked her up, and now she stood at the grand, tall entrance of the palace itself. Although she had walked through these gardens numerous times, she’d never been inside.
Kateřina’s high heels clicked on the polished marble floors of the Wallenstein Palace foyer as she walked to Sturmbannführer Langer’s side. She’d passed this baroque palace in the Malá Strana district of Prague hundreds of times. The palace was one of the city’s masterpieces, with multiple wings and courtyards. Yet she never thought she’d be here under these conditions.
Entering the central wing’s main hall, Kateřina’s heels echoed on the mosaic floor, an amalgamation of brass, bronze, and tarnished silver tiles. Above her, frescoes depicting scenes from Greek mythology were interwoven with intricate tubes and steam outlets, all half-hidden by Nazi banners boasting cogwheel insignias.
The chuff of distant steam engines and the whir of clockwork mechanisms faintly reverberated throughout the hall. She glanced around and saw that the palace was a fusion of ancient grandeur and industrial innovation. Intricate carvings of mythological creatures now donned aviator goggles and bronze armor, while ornate moldings of gods were rendered as inventors, their hands brandishing tools rather than lightning bolts.
Pipelines crisscrossed the richly decorated ceilings, while walls became canvases for ornate tapestries and steam-driven contraptions. Overhead, the massive chandeliers boasted shimmering crystals and a network of exposed gears and cogs, rotating and interlocking in mesmerizing patterns. These mechanical wonders had become the standard of high fashion and decor the past two decades as the world embraced a new age: one where steam ruled, even amidst the tumult of war.
The men in the room sported sharply pressed uniforms adorned with brass buttons and gear-shaped insignias. Their epaulets shimmered with an array of metallic colors as tubes and dials jutted out from their belts, each connected to ornate pocket watches. At their sides, women draped in silk and leather wore corsets accentuated with copper buckles and intricate lacework. Ribbons and hairpins resembling miniature steam pistons held up their elaborate hairstyles.
Kateřina smiled, her lips curling confidently over her custom-crafted, gear-encrusted choker, giving the illusion that she belonged among this elite crowd. Hilbert’s shoes clicked rhythmically as he led her down a hall where white-and-gold stucco worked seamlessly with twisting bronze pipelines. The ceiling boasted a fresco that seemed to move—airships navigating a sky full of gods and mechanical creatures—thanks to the clever incorporation of clockwork mechanisms.
As they passed, paintings showcased the traditional masterpieces and scenes where steam-driven contraptions soared above landscapes. Sculptures melded the classical with the mechanical, portraying ancient and innovative figures with marble and bronze cog limbs. Her mouth dropped slightly, not just at the art but at the audacity. With news of bombing raids over Germany coming in daily, the Nazis seemed to believe that, surrounded by a world of steam and wonder, their art—like them—was untouchable.
Two and a half years ago, when the first dirigibles had entered the Czech skies, she couldn’t imagine anything in her future beyond chaos and fear. When the spider tanks had crept into town, she’d pictured war-torn streets and fighting in the alleyways. If not for the airships that floated over the palace and the air scouts peering down, she would have believed it was like any ordinary day in Prague before the war.
Laughter and snippets of conversation continued to vibrate around her head like the rotors on an airship. Kateřina smoothed her burgundy velvet dress, thankful her father hadn’t been strong enough to empty her mother’s closet after her passing. Mother’s dresses fit her well enough.
Brass buttons adorned the fitted bodice with a high lace neckline and long sleeves. The skirt swooped behind her, full and flowing, layered with ruffles. It was her mother’s style, not hers. Yet Kateřina blended in with the other women in attendance, even down to the black broach she’d pinned onto the lace at her neck.
Around her, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. The murmurs of the other concertgoers pricked her ears. It was hard not to eavesdrop on their whispered conversations, especially when she walked among the Nazi elite.
“Is this your first time inside Wallenstein Palace?” Hilbert offered an arm.
She slipped her fingers around the crook of his arm and squeezed. His uniform jacket felt rough under her touch, and Kateřina imagined his heart the same. Something seemed off with Hilbert’s white-toothed grin, which gleamed like polished marble in the glow of a gas lamp.
Kateřina tucked a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. “Inside, yes, but not in the gardens. I remember the first time I snuck into the gardens alone. My father was meeting a friend for coffee here in Malá Strana, and I told him I would walk around. I must have been eleven or twelve. There was a wall with an unmarked door. I watched as a few people walked in.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder, back toward where they’d come. “As I saw, the entrance is well protected today.”
“What isn’t well protected in this city?” Hilbert commented, his shoulders straightening even more.
Notes of the orchestra rose, and Kateřina tipped up her chin to listen. A genuine smile lifted her cheeks. “The warming up always feels like a call to hurry, as if the notes say, ‘Listen, listen, we’re about to get started.’”
Hilbert chuckled. “Yes, well, tonight is a special night.”
“What do you mean?”
“They will be playing Heydrich’s father’s compositions.”
Kateřina paused and blinked twice. “His father . . . is a composer?”
Hilbert stirred beside her. “Was a composer, yes. He died a few years back.” He motioned her forward and led her into a mirrored room. Royal-blue plush seats lined in straight, neat rows. They settled in seats in the fourth row. Kateřina attempted to act as if this was an ordinary day, yet in her mind, she was clicking through the names of the men who sat around them.
SS-Gruppenführer Karl Hermann Frank, Generalleutnant Rudolf Toussant, Generalarbeitsführer Alexander Commichau, and SS-Brigadeführer Karl von Treuenfeld. And sitting in the third row, front and center, Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich himself. A beautiful wife sat at each of the men’s sides.
Before long, the conductor walked onto the stage, wearing a tailored black suit with a high-collared shirt and waistcoat with brass buttons and gears. A pocket-watch chain hung on his waistcoat, and a top hat sat upon his graying hair. He wore an embellished glove on his left hand. A simple white glove on his right gripped his baton.
“The concert will be given by the string quartet of Arthur Bonhardt, accompanied by pianist Kurt Sanke,” the conductor announced. “The Bonhardt players are from Halle, where Obergruppenführer Heydrich was born. A music academy has prospered there, and because of that, we have music to enjoy tonight.”
The musicians lifted their polished instruments, and notes rose like delicate butterflies. Music wrapped around her like a warm and soothing embrace. Kateřina’s breath caught as Hilbert leaned close. Her heartbeat quickened at the spicy aroma of his cologne, his nearness.
Hilbert pressed nearer until their shoulders touched. “Piano Concerto in C-minor.” He explained. Then he breathed deeply through his nose like the music was a sweet fragrance. “One of Richard Bruno Heydrich’s greatest works.”
She noted how the stringed quartet swayed as they played as if in a dance with their instruments. The pianist’s fingers skipped across the keys lightly and flawlessly, notes rising soft and lilting. She pressed her back into the blue velvet seat, leaning slightly on the armrest. Her fingers swept back and forth ever so slightly, following their pattern.
Then a scowl grew on the pianist’s face, and his fingers tapped harder on the keys like the heavy thud of boots hitting the pavement. A chill coursed through Kateřina like cold steam escaping a pressure valve as the staccato of notes rose sharply, assaulting the room with the precision and force of a clockwork mechanism in overdrive.
As if attempting to escape the battle cry, Kateřina’s eyes darted to the back of the stage where a steam-powered organ stood—a silent sentinel from bygone days. Her mind recalled listening to Alice Herz-Sommer play such an instrument. As a young teen, she’d enjoyed attending concerts highlighting the Jewish musicians. Kateřina remembered those sweet days gone by and evenings out with her mother, attending the concerts and walking home with the twinkling of a thousand lights of Prague Castle bearing down on them. She wiped at a tear.
Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again. Everything changed with the pounding of those boots. And even though she wasn’t Jewish or considered a political enemy of the Germans, the echoing of boots haunted her. They plagued her father, too.
She pressed her lips together. He’s trying to stay one step ahead of them. While she wanted her name and her words splashed on the front page, Father knew allowing that would be the same as waving a red flag to draw the bull’s attention, which for those in Prague was Heydrich himself.
Kateřina pressed a hand over her heart and shrank back as if she could feel his intense disapproval resting on her. How foolish she’d been to think she could use her stories to reveal what the Nazis were truly up to, as if Hitler’s henchman wouldn’t see it for what it was and punish her for it.
Then, as quickly as the pounding of the keys had started, they eased again. Kateřina’s shoulders softened. Her frame sank into the chair, and it wasn’t until the music washed away her worries that she realized how fast her body had reacted to the rhythms that pranced and pulsed through the room.
Following the same gentle and forceful pattern as at the beginning of the composition, the music rose like a swell of waves crashing against the shore. Standing erect with his back straight, the conductor waved like a magician casting a spell.
Hilbert shifted beside her, his cough jolting Kateřina from her reverie. She chastised herself for being so engrossed in the music that she might miss vital details for the news story she hoped to convince her father to allow her to write. Many in the audience had turned their attention away from the performance, their gazes now focused on Heydrich. The Obergruppenführer, usually so formidable, seemed almost diminished, hunched in his seat as if transported to another time by the music. It was difficult for Kateřina to reconcile this seemingly vulnerable figure with the man known for orchestrating such brutality—the one responsible for sending countless Jews to their tragic fate.
